


For Hand and Heart

by TheMarvelousMadMadamMim



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: "i love you now fight me", F/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Series, dueling idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:40:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24098965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim/pseuds/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim
Summary: When Calanthe turns down yet another proposal from Eist, he decides there's really only one course of action.Challenge her to a duel, naturally.
Relationships: Calanthe Fiona Riannon/Eist Tuirseach
Comments: 7
Kudos: 52





	For Hand and Heart

**Author's Note:**

> So this was hinted at in "Not a Thing of Ballads", though it actually turned out a bit differently that I expected it to.  
> I dunno why, but I kind of like the idea that while Mousesack seems pretty well-informed on the odd state of Calanthe and Eist's relationship, even he gets some details wrong. 
> 
> Set roughly around 1247, aka two-ish years before Pavetta's betrothal feast in the Netflix series.

Eist Tuirseach can chart the seas. He can name all the constellations, can track the shift of every star in the heavens with ease. He can read a change in the winds before it actually occurs. He can comprehend a line of sums with relative ease, can calculate exchange rates between various currencies in his head, and he knows most of his country’s laws by heart. He can speak three languages, and understand another two.

But he will never understand that fucking woman, as long as he lives.

She’s infuriating. Illogical. _Irresistible_.

And currently invading every ounce of his mind.

He scrubs a hand over his face, biting back a growl. It’s not the first time he’s lain in bed, staring up at the ceiling while thinking about Calanthe of Cintra. And try as he might, he knows it won’t be the last, either.

Gods, how he wishes it was, though.

He’s met plenty of beautiful women. Plenty of intelligent, scathingly witty ones, too. Plenty of queens, plenty of warriors, plenty of mothers and smart-asses and overly-proud idiots.

He’s never quite met one like _her_ , though. One who’s all of those things combined. One who, both because of and in spite of being all those things, has always hit him square in the chest, every time he looks upon her.

It’s been years, now. Far past the point of this being a mere flash of infatuation. Far past curiosity or even desire, he sometimes thinks—it’s almost a need, the way he feels himself constantly pulling towards her.

_You only want what you can’t have,_ she’d said coolly, the first time he’d asked for her hand. She’d immediately become like a fortress wall, cold and beyond breaching, even with his wittiest jokes or most teasing tones.

It had taken him nearly a year to earn his way back into her good graces. And for another year after that, sometimes he swore that he still caught her watching him, almost warily.

She wasn’t ready, he told himself.

He could wait, he told himself.

And he did. Waited for a sign, waited for something, _anything_ from the woman.

He thought she’d finally given it. Over the past few months, communication between Skellige and Cintra has increased, mostly surrounding the potential solidification of their alliance through marriage. Granted, Calanthe suggested a union between her daughter, Pavetta, and Eist’s nephew, Crach, rather than the one he’d proposed, a few years prior.

Eist hadn’t minded. It had given him an excuse to write to the queen more frequently. To dock into the Cintran port more often. To spend more time at the Cintran capitol, specifically in the presence of its ruler.

The marriage wouldn’t happen for another two years, at least, and Eist had relished the thought that it meant many more months to let this new shift between them grow. Pavetta wasn’t even quite thirteen yet; Calanthe balked at the idea of a wedding before her daughter’s fifteenth birthday.

Calanthe balked at a lot, Eist had found. Balked at the marriage terms, balked at the idea of sending Pavetta to Skellige for a time, balked at the idea of immediately relinquishing her role as queen to the young couple—or even relinquishing her role by the time Pavetta reached twenty years of age.

At first, it seemed logical. Her concerns were strategic and well-founded.

Then, it devolved into odd conversations, stilted and uncertain. He began to sense that she didn’t want the marriage to happen at all. She was stalling, he could tell.

Yet she kept inviting him back to Cintra. Kept sending letters. Kept finding excuses to reach out, again and again. And he kept accepting these invitations, replying to these letters, gladly giving more excuses of his own. Through it all, they flirted and bantered and generally enjoyed being in each other’s presence, as they always had, almost from the start of their odd relationship.

He’d just returned to the city a week and a half ago, and during every single discussion they’d had on the matter, his suspicion deepened. For as long as he’d known her, she’d always been a bit of a flirt, and a rather indiscriminate one—though not everyone understood it as such. She could be coy and charming, but her way of flirting was a bit more…barbed and aggressive than most. One had to pay attention to the light in her eyes, to determine if her words were meant as insult or invitation. But now her remarks were just a bit softer at the edges. She took full beats just to look at him with a kind of warm, lazy look that was almost feline. To savor, almost.

For months now, he noted the way the corner of her mouth hooked up, when he made a snarky comment, the way she somehow both looked like she wanted to laugh and lay him out, at the same time. The way she sidled up to him, at court functions and council meetings, body barely brushing against his, almost minutely, as if she had no idea that it was happening—yet she did it with such studied disinterest and ease that he knew she was fully aware, every time. She wanted to be near him, to touch him as much as he wanted to touch her in return.

But this particular visit, the touches seemed to happen more often. And she seemed to forget to feign unawareness when they did.

It seemed like a sign. Calanthe of Cintra never said what she meant, but her nonverbal cues never lied.

One night, when they’d been tucked away in the queen’s private study—an increasingly common occurrence that always turned the air honey-slow and warm—he’d glanced up to catch her looking at him with such indescribably soft amusement that his heart had leapt up his throat.

They were standing side by side at the drafting table, pouring over a map of Cintra and deciding which particular regions would stay firmly in Pavetta’s sole possession. Her hands were planted on the table and he was leaning in, listening in rapt attention, their shoulders occasionally brushing as they spoke in low, almost whispered tones, even though there was no one around to overhear.

Then he’d looked up and realized just how close she was, with that smiling mouth, and just how static the air was around them, like the breeze before a tremendous thunderstorm, crackling with still-confined lightning.

_There are other ways to secure an alliance_ , he’d finally pointed out, his voice so heavy that he was surprised it even floated far enough to reach her.

She’d merely arched her brow, tilting her head in silent concession to his point. Her dark eyes were lazily watching his mouth—she was just as aware of how easy it would be, to lean in and claim his own, he realized. She was actually considering it, came the second, more shocking revelation.

_Other marriages to be had_ , he’d added, barely able to speak as he watched her eyes, still locked on his lips with an almost hungry curiosity.

She’d stilled. He’d been momentarily entranced by the flush that covered her chest, rising up her deliciously bare neck. When she was attending a court function, she wore rather conservative attire. But when they met privately, when she was in far more relaxed settings, her necklines took a more…southernly trend. And she didn’t wear the heavy, ostentatious necklaces that usually covered most of her neck, looking more like armor than jewelry. He, for one, was quite appreciative of the look. Though it did require him to be much more aware of his own gaze—he never wanted to make her feel uncomfortable, never wanted to feel as if he were taking advantage of a situation, never wanted to enjoy anything more than what she willingly offered for his enjoyment.

_Yes I suppose there are,_ she’d agreed, a bit breathlessly. She’d dipped her head slightly, pressing her lips together. Her hair was still pulled back—he could see just how deeply she blushed, all the way to the tips of her ears. The vein in her neck became more noticeable, and his lips ached, knowing how hot her skin would feel beneath them, if only he dipped forward just a bit, just enough to kiss that neck.

Instead, he’d gently placed his hand over hers, feeling a measure of triumph when she didn’t pull away. She’d understood his meaning. She hadn’t said no.

She’d merely sniffed, turning her gaze back to the map and commenting on yet another region’s grain supply. After a beat, she slowly slid her hand from beneath his, somehow making it one of the most erotic touches he’d ever experienced.

Then again, that was just part of whatever spell she’d cast over him, he knew. She could make breathing look like a sin. And a mere look could have him reacting like a hormonal teenage boy who’d never so much as seen a woman’s thigh.

He’d had infatuations before. Whatever this was, it was far more primal, far more powerful.

And more importantly, he knew it wasn’t one-sided.

Which only made the current situation that much more agonizing.

Even more so was the realization that whatever this was, there was emotion behind it. He genuinely cared for her. Genuinely believed that he could make her happy, if given the chance—and genuinely wanted her happiness, above all else.

Is that not love?

Not for Calanthe, apparently.

They’d continued their conversation on matters regarding the division of assets for Pavetta and Crach, and then she’d wished him a pleasant evening.

Even then, he’d detected something in her tone. Something final. Something…decided.

Fool that he was, he’d dared to hope that her decision was something good.

That was the last time he’d seen her.

* * *

It’s been nearly a week since. He’s stayed at Cintra, trying every day to hold an audience with the queen. And every day, there’s a new excuse—the queen is unwell, the queen must attend to her daughter, the queen is seeing dignitaries from eastfucknowhere, the queen is out riding, the queen is out hawking, the queen is simply out.

Out of sight, out of reach, out of time for Eist Tuirseach, it seems.

It’s all a damn lie, and he knows it.

Then today, the final blow. A messenger, sent to his chamber door. As if she couldn’t possibly walk the few hundred yards there herself.

_The queen regrets to inform you that she shan’t be able to see you again before your departure for Skellige. She sends her regards and wishes you well on your journey._

He’d merely nodded, numb from the shock of it.

He is being dismissed. Cut off like a gangrenous limb.

Somehow, he knows that if he leaves Cintra now, like this, he will never see her face again.

He’d rather die than accept such a fate.

* * *

He can’t help himself. He’s had more than a few pints of ale, sitting in his chambers and ranting to Mousesack about the woman’s pettiness and overwhelming lack of good manners. Mousesack had merely nodded, knowing better than to actually say an ill word against her—it would set Eist on the defensive in a heartbeat, and the man was getting drunk. Not quite there yet, but well on the way.

That’s how wounded hearts were, Mousesack knew. And he knew better than to say so aloud, too.

Finally, Eist had fallen into bed, still angry and slightly heartbroken, a bit like a kicked puppy (and feeling even more irritated with himself, because he knew that was _exactly_ how childishly he was acting, and Great Father of the Sea, he still couldn’t stop himself from feeling exactly that).

He frowns at the ceiling again, painted in the overwrought Cintran style, a frieze of gold lines braided much like the crown she wore around her head, the last time he saw her.

He thinks, yet again, of the way she blushed at the unspoken proposal. The way her mouth lifted slightly, as if her breath had caught in her chest—she had been _delighted_ , not offended. She had wanted it, he was certain.

But then she’d refused.

Well, except she hadn’t, actually. Refusing his offer would require her to actually communicate with him—which she certainly hasn’t done, all week now. She’s locked herself away like a coward, like she’s under siege and all she has to do is wait him out, wait for him to tuck his tail and retreat.

They’re not those types of people, he thinks fiercely. They’re both warriors, brazen and bold in their own right.

Well, perhaps that’s the answer.

He bolts to his feet, suddenly filled with conviction that he’s going to meet the great lioness on her level. He won’t be swept aside like her other cow-eyed suitors, easily discarded and dismissed.

No, he’ll fight for her. He’ll fight _her_.

* * *

“What the earthly fuck are you doing?” She hisses down at him. It isn’t that late (just after midnight, Eist thinks…he doesn’t really know, now that he thinks about it), but she’s already in bed. She’s in a light linen shift, hair in a loose braid—she’s soft, so soft, he aches at the sight and it’s too much and he just wants to bury his face in it, in her.

Currently, she’s looking at him with something far from the soft adoration he feels towards her. Truth be told, she’s looking at him as if he’s grown a second head.

Granted, he is down in the small courtyard below her bedroom window, having spent a ridiculous amount of time and effort tossing rocks at the panes, trying to get her attention.

But she’s finally here, leaning out the window and looking down at him in mild concern.

“Fight me,” he holds his arms open in challenge.

She blinks at that, surprise evident in every line of her face.

“You’re drunk,” she declares, keeping her tone low.

“I’ve had a drink,” he concedes. “But I’m perfectly capable of handling you in hand-to-hand combat. I challenge you now, great lioness.”

He hits the title with a slightly mocking air, and she shifts back slightly at that. She’s not one to back down from a challenge, he knows.

“On what grounds?” She asks, lifting one brow.

“On the grounds that you are a coward,” he hisses, trying to keep his voice from carrying beyond her own window, to any other ears that might be eavesdropping. He doesn’t want to embarrass her, no matter how upset she’s made him.

Her face mutes into absolute murder at that.

“You are a coward,” he repeats. “You are a coward, and an unfair actor in the affairs of—the affair between us.”

She steps closer to the window again, fully aware of his meaning.

“There _is_ no affair between us,” she hisses through clenched teeth. She’s leaning out the window now, braid swinging freely. “And there certainly _won’t_ be, ever—not after such unseemly—”

“ _Unseemly_ is refusing audience with a royal guest, who still rests under the shelter of your hospitality, who attends your court on matters of state,” he retorts easily. “Unseemly is delaying a marriage agreement, with no sound reasoning. Unseemly is flirting and swanning around, with little true care—”

“Enough!” She smacks her hands on the stone window ledge, face so tight with anger that she’s nearly unrecognizable. She pulls herself back slightly, lowering her voice once more, “You, sir, are a fool and a cad. And I accept you challenge—if for no other reason than the supreme delight of removing your fractious tongue from your lying, _petulant_ little mouth.”

She slams the window shut at that. He takes a beat to truly realize what he’s done.

Well, fuck. Whatever existed between them was already broken into bits, he thinks. But he’s certainly just taken a match to the shattered remains. There will be no salvage, after this.

* * *

It takes nearly half an hour—to the point that he begins to think that she’s lied, fobbed him off yet again—but she finally appears in the small courtyard. She is no longer soft and dreamlike, wrapped in thin linens—she’s in her padded breeches and long-sleeved top, the one she generally wears under her armor. Against her hip, her longsword in its leather sheath snaps with each step she takes, quick and deadly.

“Come along then, poor abused sir,” her tone drips with disdain as she breezes past. He follows her, already wanting to mend the rift but still too proud to do so.

Fuck, she’s lovely in a set a breeches. He’s seen her in them before, but most of the view was previously obscured by armor or her cloak. He tries not to get too distracted, to remember exactly why he’s here, following her through a maze of courtyards and side gardens—tries and fails a bit and doesn’t mind his failure in the least.

He opens his mouth to speak several times, but nothing comes out. There’s a feeling of finality about it all—nothing matters beyond what’s happening now, nothing can divert the course of what comes next.

They reach the stables and it’s obvious that Calanthe knows her way around, even without a lamp. She prepares two horses, practically snarling when he offers to help.

Her movements are quick, jerky, almost shaking with rage. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen her so angry.

Still, he reminds himself that he has just as much right to his own anger—if not more. He merely spoke the truth, why should that upset her? Why should he have to constantly coddle and cosset her, like some tyrant queen, when he isn't even her subject?

She hands him a set of reins. However, she doesn’t release them, once he’s got them in his own grasp.

“One condition,” her voice is still hard, but less angry now. “When I best you, you must promise never to ask me again.”

Her cocksure attitude reignites the indignation in his chest. “And what happens when you fail?”

She blinks, as if that should be obvious. “Then you’ll have…what you want.”

* * *

If Eist was planning on assassinating her, Calanthe guesses this would actually be the cleverest way to do it. Attempt to seduce her, and when that didn’t work, challenge her to a duel. They both know they can’t fight here, inside the walls of the castle. It’s the perfect excuse to get her away from her guards, out into the wide, wild, open. He could slit her throat, toss her body in a stream, bury her so that she’s never found—do gods-only-knows what to her long before he does any of that.

She knows she’s being ridiculous. He’d never do such a thing.

Then again, she also thought he’d never stand outside her window, raging like a child being denied his favorite sweets because she’s somehow wounded his pride by refusing to open her legs.

It’s more than just opening her legs, she knows. They both know. Sex, for a queen, is always about more than just that. And on the flipside of that same coin, sex _with_ a queen is always about more than that.

And, deep down, she knows it’s about more than just sex, too.

Eist Tuirseach can have any woman he wants—look at him, he’s a paragon among men, what woman wouldn’t swoon? She genuinely can’t imagine that any other woman he’s approached has ever refused him. Calanthe could easily give herself to him, she knows. She’s a queen, she has the prerogative, she has ways of protecting her reputation.

But she wants more than that. Wants to _be_ more than that, to him. At first, it was a fun little game—one she could never let him win, because if she fell to his charms, well, she’d be just like every woman he’d bedded before, and she needed to be different to him, in some small way.

And then he’d made it clear that he wanted more than that, too.

The first time he’d asked for her hand, her heart had nearly leapt out of her chest. It had been…unexpected, yet perfectly natural, at the same time. Their connection was ( _still is_ ) undeniable, and the benefit to both of their kingdoms equally unassailable.

But her heart had leapt with joy over Roegner, too. And look where that had taken her.

She’d said no, and somehow, even then, she’d known he’d try again. That was simply part of who he was. Tenacious to a fault.

Marrying Pavetta to Crach would put an end to it, she thought. He’d accept the absolute futility of it all and finally let it go. They could remain friendly, exchanging witty barbs at feasts and sharing teasing looks—all the good, with none of the bad. All the heat of a fire without the burn.

Except the thing about fires is that they feel so warm and inviting. They pull you closer in, with their pretty dancing flames and the way they make your skin sing and tighten with delicious heat. She’d forgotten that part. Had gotten a bit spellbound, a bit too close.

Well, never fear—fate has never let her learn a lesson unscathed, and she can at least admire the consistency.

He’d asked again—not directly, but clearly enough.

And this time, not just her heart had reacted. Her entire body had set aflame, heavy with want for all the things marriage to him would bring. Not just physically, but emotionally. She’d wanted to say yes, to lay herself across that drafting table and let him have the first taste of marital bliss then and there.

He hadn’t pressed the matter, thankfully, and that night, she allowed herself to close her eyes and imagine him there, in the places her own fingers slipped and pushed, in places that had been pulsing and pounding with want and need ever since his expression had shifted and he’d spoken in that low tone that rippled down her spine and set fire to every ounce of her being. She’d come almost immediately, slightly horrified at how easily the mere thought of him affected her.

He was far more dangerous than Roegner had ever been.

And more importantly, she was—and still is—keenly aware of just how badly suited they are for each other.

She can’t be what he wants, not truly. Because he doesn’t know who she is, not truly. She’s been so careful, remained so artful, hidden in plain sight. Even in their private meetings, she’s chosen each piece of clothing like a weapon, has made sure every aspect of her appearance was just-so. She’s chosen her words with equal caution, she’s never truly let herself lose control of her emotions around him, even when he thinks she has.

Except tonight. When he called her a coward and it stung—because it was true.

It wasn’t just the truth of his words that hurt, though. It’s the realization that it’s already begun. The disillusionment. The realization of just how much she’s come to love being seen by him in a certain light, the way he’s somehow always seen the best, brightest version of her self, even if it was all just a pretty lie. The realization that she’s begun to believe the lie, too, begun to depend on it, to crave his adoration, a bit too much.

He terrifies her. Always has, always will.

She reacted as she always does when afraid—with overwhelming force and vitriol—and she’s not done yet, not by half.

She’d planned on simply disappearing from his life. Giving him an easier, more honorable way out—and yes, saving herself a bit, too, giving her a way to remain somewhat higher in his esteem. But he literally demanded direct confrontation, and by gods, she’ll give him exactly what he thinks he wants, just to show him that _she’s_ not what he wants, not in the least.

She’ll break him, then. Knock him to his knees and put her sword to his throat. Humiliate him. Have him say, once and for all, that he isn’t worthy of her, that he could never be worthy of her. She will be cruel and unyielding, she will make sure there isn’t a shred of affection left in his stupid, soppy heart by the night’s end.

She’ll kill him, to save him.

Is that not love?

And is that not terrifying, knowing it is, knowing it can never be?

She urges her horse into a gallop, desperate to have done with it all. Pushes into the stirrups, raising herself above the saddle to reduce the jarring, letting the wind sting her face enough to draw tears.

She simply gives the horse its head, letting it tear through the night until she’s certain that they’re far enough from Cintra and the horse is winded enough to slow itself down. She hears pounding hooves approaching, wills herself not to look back, not to watch him, not to give herself even the small comfort of seeing him barrel up like some mighty warrior, right out of a ballad. She’s seen him ride in tournaments, and, truth be told, those images accompanied her to bed more than a few nights.

She isn’t like this. Not with other men, not even with the women she’s bedded as well. She finds things beautiful, finds them alluring, perhaps even enjoys a taste of them, then sets them down and goes about her merry way. She doesn’t get affected.

She did, once. A pretty boy who smiled and gladly accepted the role as her king. He took her, but never as a lover, and not for an equal, either.

She prides herself on not making the same mistakes twice.

* * *

Eist reins his mount to a halt beside Calanthe's, taking a beat to watch her slide down to the ground and land on noiseless feet, like a cat. He dismounts as well, glancing around the open field.

There isn’t so much as a rock in sight, much less a tree or post to secure the reins. Calanthe is reaching for him again—no, she’s reaching for the reins, taking them for a beat as she gingerly removes the horse’s bridle. She does the same to her horse, lightly stroking its nose before hanging each bridle on the horn of its respective horse’s saddle.

“What are you going to do if they wander off?” He asks, face lined with curiosity. They’ve ridden quite a length; there’d be no way to get back to the castle before morning on foot.

She shoots him a dark look, almost daring him to challenge her again. “My creatures come when they’re called.”

Gods above, he shouldn’t be so affected by her venomous tone and disdainful sneer, the obvious slight jab at his own behavior, but here he is.

She stalks further into the open field, putting distance between them as she draws her sword and unbuckles the scabbard from her hip, tossing it aside.

“Rules?” She asks, almost conversationally. “I’m assuming we’re following general sparring protocol.”

Taps, not swipes. No blood drawn. No punches, no hard, blunt blows.

He nods in agreement, though she’s still turned away from him and can’t see it. “Aye. But we need to clarify the terms.”

She stops, ducking her head for a moment and taking a deep breath to steel herself before turning back to him. There’s a half moon in the sky tonight, but her eyes still shine in the darkness, her face dramatically shadowed and only accenting the hooded eyes and full lips that he’s come to love so well.

“State them,” her voice is flat, but edged with caution. She looks down at her thick leather gloves, puts all her attention into making sure they fit, just so.

“Best of three. It seems only fair.”

“Best of one. I don’t do fair. I do _winning_.”

He shrugs. He hadn’t expected anything less, truth be told. He’s stalling, more than anything. He can feel they’re on the edge of a precipice, and he’s trying to talking her down from the ledge, trying to have a moment in which they simply reconnect, in which she can simply remember that they are friends, of a sort—or at least they were, before he started them down this disastrous path.

But her flat, impatient look bears no promise of such a thing. With a sigh, he continues.

“Alright, then, to the actual terms. If you win—”

“ _When_ I win—”

“ _If_ you win, I won’t ask for your hand again.” He watches her face, notes the odd, unreadable look moving across it—relief, it looks like relief, oh Great Father of the Sea, _is_ it relief? Has he misread everything, has he pushed too far, has he offered something she’s never truly wanted, now or ever? No, he can’t have, he tells himself. She’d have never let this devolve this far, if that were the case. “If I win, I will ask one last time—and you will answer truthfully, from your heart.”

There. He would never demand something that should only be freely given. He sees the shock blossom across her face—she really thought that he’d trap her like this, force her into a marriage over a duel?

It stings a bit, realizing that she believed him capable of such a thing. His mind ripples with the realization that, despite assuming the stakes were so high, she still came out here, with him. _Why?_

Because she wants him to win? His heart is a fool for hoping, but at least it remains consistent in its foolishness.

She adapts a more solemn expression, giving a single, heavy nod of agreement. Then she moves forward, closing the distance between them to offer her hand—the standard practice, before beginning a duel.

The irony of offering her hand so freely, in this situation, is not lost on him.

Maybe this is it, he thinks. Maybe this is the thing he’s been missing, in all the cues she’s given before. She’s not like anything or anyone he’s ever encountered. Maybe he just needed to prove himself, prove he was truly willing to fight for this, for her, for them. Maybe this is how she understands love.

He wishes he knew for certain. He’ll learn her language, he’ll devote his life to the study of her moods and unspoken cues, if only she’ll let him.

For now, he grips her hand firmly, stepping just a little closer than necessary. She tilts her head back slightly, trying to keep him in her gaze, trying to still look at him down the length of her nose, even though he’s half a foot above her.

Her eyes. He’s always been transfixed by them. Their darkness is like the sea at night, wide and glittering and deeper than any man could survive. They always look hungry; he’s always understood the feeling.

“May the best man win,” he intones.

“I will,” she agrees, without a hint of humor or sarcasm. Then she slips away, walking out into a wider arc as she takes a breath and waits for his first offensive.

* * *

Eist might have seemed half-drunk when he stood beneath her window earlier tonight, but now he’s stone-cold sober, Calanthe realizes. His eyes are sharp and quick, taking in her movements, already calculating how she holds her weight on her feet, where her weakest point is.

She’s seen him duel before. She has the advantage—he’s seen her in the fray of battle, but that’s an entirely different matter.

She has further advantage—he stands to gain everything, but she has, somehow simultaneously, nothing and everything to lose. He is reacting from a stinging pride and a hurting, bewildered heart. She is motivated by anger, pure and simple.

Because she _is_ angry. She’s _seething_.

This thing between them, it is good. It’s pure imagination, flirting and witty banter and coy looks and barely-there touches. It’s incapable of being marred by reality. And now he’s gone and ruined it all, and for what? So that he can be disappointed by the truth? So they can turn into every bitter, squabbling, distrustful couple they’ve ever known?

She stops pacing, holding her hands out in a little gesture of defiance as she drawls, “By your leave, good sir.”

She puts enough disdain, enough snarl into her words, to goad him into action. He feints, and she bounds to meet him, turning away at the last second—over her left shoulder, though she generally favors her right, and she can see it surprises him, giving her a measure of triumph already.

Their blades never touch. Still, Calanthe gives a twitch of her wrist, signaling with her own. _I could have, but I didn’t._

She’s making a point. And beginning the hard and necessary work of breaking him, breaking whatever monument he’s made of her in his mind.

It had been so lovey, having someone look at her with such admiration. More than once, she’d imagined just how he’d look, if she ever took him into her bed. Her heart already aches, knowing she’ll never see that expression, she’ll never even be allowed the simple comfort of imagining it. Before, even in its impossibility, there was room for hope, for dreams of what might be, even if it could never be.

Now he’s taking that away, too.

She puts her anger into her arm as she lunges forward to swipe. He dances out of the way easily—she showed her intent too early, she knows, but again, it’s more about making a point.

He’s watching her warily now, and she tries not to flush at the directness of his gaze—oh, he can’t hide it now, can’t hide that even with stakes as high as this, he’s enjoying the sight of her, armed and attacking, even if he is the target.

How many men would ever dodge a blow from her blade and still look as if they’d gladly lay her out, here and now? Again, she wants to shriek—it’s not fair, she never pushed or asked for too much, and yet she’s going to lose this, all of this, all because he can’t be happy with what they’ve got.

He feints; she steps back but doesn’t overreact, doesn’t let him throw her off balance.

She grins, making sure to put as much sharpness into it as possible. A taunt, but not a friendly one.

They’ve promised no blood, but that’s only from blades. She’ll have his heart between her teeth, and she’ll tear it to shreds, even as it breaks her own.

* * *

He watches the way Calanthe shifts her weight and balance, as she slowly moves around him. She grips her longsword with both hands now, and he knows that whatever has come before, it is merely a breeze compared the hurricane heading his way.

She leans back, pushing her weight into her right foot and leveling her sword at him. The sheer determination in her gaze almost stuns him.

He realizes, perhaps with more clarity than previously, that even if Calanthe genuinely wants him to win, even if she’s only fighting to save face, she is absolutely fighting with every ounce of skill and strength she possesses.

Heaven above, it only gives him more strength, in turn. He shifts, prepares to defend, and waits.

He doesn’t have to wait long. She lunges, bridging the gap between them far faster than he expected. He blocks the first attack, but she’s quick, even with such a heavy sword in her grasp. He feels a solid blow to his ribs, even as he feels the way she pulls back at the last moment, keeping herself from fully following through. She hits a knee and throws her sword up in a defensive position—steel rings out as his own sword meets it, an almost-instinctual reaction to her first hit.

She gives a breathless huff, obviously pleased. Then she’s on her feet again, whirling back out of reach.

She looks delighted, but then pulls her expression back into something of a smirk—the kind that is half snarl, full disdain.

He’s seen that look. It’s never been leveled at him. Again, he feels a wave of confusion. She’s so angry again, practically vibrating with a vehemence that he can’t quite understand. Was it the affront to her pride, when he called her a coward? Was it the audacity of asking for her hand this way? Has he somehow failed already, proven himself unworthy?

He knows that he’s not the only, or even the first, to seek a marriage with the Lioness of Cintra. Half her suitors had never even see her in person, merely sending emissaries to her court as soon as the requisite mourning period was over, after Roegner’s death (and a good number pressed their suit long before, even before Roegner's actual funeral). Transactional and concise. He’d understood her disdain at such a flat, lifeless look at partnership.

Then there had been a petty knight, one who had the deliciously good fortune of warming her bed for a few weeks. He’d been bold enough to ask as well, but she’d merely laughed.

He thinks of the story now. Calanthe had shared it with him, during a private walk through the gardens—they’d taken some air during some court affair, at which another emissary had made overtures on behalf of his master.

_He chose to wait until my mouth was around his cock_ , she’d grinned, never one to shy away from a bawdy conversation. _I nearly choked to death while laughing._

Eist had laughed with her, both at the amusing story and at how much he simply adored watching her as she told it. Of course, his heart had ached a little—it was evident, even to her, even though she never said so, that her delightful little bed companion had heard the tale of her first husband, also a petty knight of no renown and pretty face, and had decided to try his luck, as he fit the bill.

Even the ones who had the distinct pleasure of truly knowing her, in the most intimate of ways, still approached the idea of marriage to such a woman with such unfeeling calculation.

Is that the problem? Has he not shown her, plainly enough, that he isn’t here for a status upgrade, for a shiny crown and a rich purse?

He’ll have time to show her later, he promises. Once he’s allowed to drop down to one knee and confess all.

Right now, there are more pressing matters. Like the woman swinging her broadsword at his chest.

* * *

Eist retreats and wards off the blow with a sharp hiss from his own blade. He puts enough force into it to send her spinning, and she desperately tries to regain her balance before he lunges into her. She does, somewhat, but not enough to properly fend off his offensive. She barely stops a blow, but it puts her at an odd angle, turned with her back almost completely to him.

Eist’s sword sings off hers, coming flatside to smack her arse, just enough to be felt.

Damn her traitorous body for its immediate flood of warmth. And damn him further still for grinning so wickedly at her.

He wants to play. Wants this to be like other activities they should be enjoying—sweaty and pulse-pounding and tinged with their usual sense of playful antagonism.

She wants to give that to him. Wants to let this be a vertical expression of a shared horizontal desire, wants to let herself give in to this, just this, just for a little while.

But she remembers: they’re only here because she caved, before. Because she didn’t stop herself from giving in to little impulses, didn’t stop herself from moving closer and closer to the flame.

She can’t do that again. She can’t let her guard down, can’t give him any measure of hope. An executioner’s blade must be sharp, their aim true and quick.

_I do this because I love you,_ she thinks, half-shocked at how easily it rolls through her brain, fully terrified at how true she knows it is, even in the haze of adrenaline.

And because she loves him, she snarls and winds into another attack. He ducks, but she anticipates, easily swiveling back to keep her sword at her back, glancing off another tap from his blade. A longsword isn’t generally meant for one-handed combat, and hers even less so, with its heavier pommel that allows her to place more heft into each blow (designed especially for her, for her shorter height and lesser upper body strength, an equalizer on the battlefield against her larger, typically male, opponents). She feels a slight almost-tearing in her upper arm, from the force required to make such a move so quickly, without her other arm to help carry the weight of the momentum.

She whips back around, sword firmly in both hands again and willing herself not to think about the strained muscle.

He’s looking at her, eyes shining in admiration.

And now she hates him. Hates him for how much she craves that look, how much she already mourns its loss, how much she hates doing this to him.

* * *

She swings at him with absolute fury, and Eist lunges backwards, certain that if she does land a blow, she will not restrain herself this time, regardless of the rules they’ve set. She swings through, misses and uses the momentum to make a full turn, lifting the sword overhead again.

It’s his chance, and he takes it. Cuts upward with his own blade, catching against hers and wrenching further upward, further back. The maneuver keeps him firm on his own feet, but pushes her arms just slightly too far back over her own head, leaving her balance easily overthrown.

A quick flick of his foot, and he can have her on her knees, his blade at her chin.

She knows it. He can see it in her eyes.

He presses forward slightly, just a bit more, feeling a flush of delight at the sensation of being close enough to truly loom over her as she pants, sheening and wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Her sword remains steady, firm against his, but she doesn’t actually push back, doesn't push him away.

He takes a moment to simply stare down at her. He’s close enough to simply lean down at kiss her, he realizes.

That’s when he truly notices her expression. The fear in her eyes. The heavy drag and pull of her chest, more from emotion than exertion. The slackened lines around her open, downward-turned mouth.

She’s _terrified_.

He feels like he’s been kicked in the gut. Of all the things he wishes to inspire in this woman, fear is the dead last. He’d rather have her angry and vengeful, brimming with venom and spite, than this. Anything but this.

He jumps back, as if scalded. Lowers his weapon, feeling as if he’s somehow committed some great crime.

He’s truly misunderstood. She doesn’t want this. And neither does he, he realizes.

She’s still watching him with wide eyes, breathless and confused.

“I don’t want it,” he says suddenly. “Not like this.”

He thought she looked fearful before, but it doesn’t even begin to compare to the absolute terror in her expression now. Again, he feels a wave of confusion. Isn’t this what she wanted?

Still, his aching heart—aching at the sight of her, aching at what he’s done to her, what he’s made her feel—screams for him to continue. He jabs his sword into the ground, a finality.

“I forfeit,” he announces. As if there’s anyone else here to hear it.

He turns, ready to leave. On horse or on foot, he doesn’t care. He just can’t be here anymore. He takes his sword and starts to walk away.

“ _Don’t!_ ”

He stops, turning back around in surprise at the sheer panic in her voice.

“I don’t…” Her face is twisting in confusion, as if she’s as perplexed by her own actions as he is. “I don’t…want.”

He shifts fully towards her, taking a single step back to her.

“Don’t want what?” His voice is quiet, but it carries through the silent night as easily as a shout. She doesn’t give an answer, merely stares at him in glassy-eyed bewilderment. Then, with a slight touch of desperation, he asks, “More importantly, what _do_ you want?”

She huffs at that, as if it’s a ridiculous question. A beat passes. They simply watch each other.

Storm clouds ripple over her expression as she tries to find the answer. He notices the way her grip tightens on her sword, the way her breathing begins to quicken again.

“Don’t you see?” Her chest is full-on heaving, like she’s about to be sick. Instead she retches up words, “I can’t—I can’t let you win, and I don’t want to win, either. I don’t want…”

She stops, face drawn and pained. Still, it’s as clear as if she’d spoken the words anyways: _I don’t want to lose you._

She turns away angrily, tossing her sword aside. Eist doesn’t move, still dumbfounded, still not entirely sure exactly what is happening.

Then, the calm quiet of the countryside is rent in two by a bellow. Heavy and aching and overwhelming.

It’s Calanthe, he realizes a bit numbly. She’s nearly bent in half, hands splayed out by her sides as she screams into the night.

Then, as quickly as it started, it stops. She’s still turned away from him, head and shoulders slumped in a defeated, exhausted stance.

He can hear the way the scream has torn at her vocal chords, when she quietly, achingly asks, “Why can’t you ever leave well enough alone, you absolute fool of a man?”

* * *

She truly hadn’t considered the idea that he might actually best her in this duel. But then he did—well he _would_ have, if he hadn’t been so damn noble.

She wants to hate him for it, for his puppy-eyed pity, for his softness that should have been the end of him, long ago. Loves him all the more instead, to her unending terror.

She had planned to break his heart with cruelty. Now she’s going to have to resort to compassion.

Now she’s going to have to tell the truth.

She turns back to him, shaking her head as she looks at him ( _he’s so beautiful—he’s not a pretty soft boy of court, he’s rugged and he’s beautiful and he doesn’t make sense, he shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t still be looking at her with such soft concern, shouldn’t be here, silently taking over her heart with every beat of his_ ). She holds out her hands, trying to offer him what little truth she can.

“I am not what you want. I can’t be—you can’t want what you don’t know. And how can you know me?” She feels her throat tighten as she continues, “I’ve seen the way you look at me—you wouldn’t look at me like that, if you truly saw me. And I…I don’t want to stick around and watch the stars slowly fall from your eyes as you realize you’ve made a monumental mistake, putting me up on a pedestal.”

He shakes his head softly, as if refuting her claims. He opens his mouth to speak, but she’s quicker.

“And more importantly, I’m certainly not what you need.”

“Bullshit.” He takes another step forward. This one larger, more decisive. The soft look is replaced by something harder, something more determined, “How can you possibly know what I need?”

“You will be king someday, Eist. We both know it. And I cannot be all the things a queen should be for her king.”

He shakes his head at this, as if offended on her behalf. “I don’t need a queen who’s subservient and proper and—”

She hisses, as if overwhelmed by his denseness. She whips off her gloves, snapping them onto the ground. One hand jerks up her shirt, the other pulls at her breeches, each enough to bare her stomach, and the thick, still-pink scar that slides across it, edges curving up like a scythe.

“You need heirs, you idiot.” She lets him look, feeling a measure of pain at the surprise that blooms in his expression.

Ah, yes. He’s thought of her body, she knows. But he’s had no true idea what he’s dealing with. _See? How can you want what you do not truly know?_

“And I cannot give you such a thing—I _will_ not.” There is a harshness in her tone that brooks no refusals.

Technically, she’s capable of creating children still. It’s the bearing them and birthing them that’s an issue.

“Calanthe,” his voice is soft, almost aching with tenderness. She can’t bring herself to look at him anymore. “Calanthe, Skellige isn’t a hereditary monarchy. Even if I did sire children, they’d have to prove themselves before the jarls and bondsmen, and be _chosen_ as the next ruler. I don’t—I don’t care about such a thing. I never have.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she turns away slightly, hands on her hips. “You deserve happiness, and I cannot give you that. Not in all the ways that you should have it.”

There is a heavy, hurting pause. Then, he speaks, voice etched with a small ache.

“Have I no say in the matter?”

The thought stops her.

He moves closer still and she closes her eyes, bracing herself against the wave of emotions that he pushes towards her.

“You say that you want me to be happy,” his voice is low, heavy with emotion. “Yet when I say that, for me, happiness is to be with you, then you deny me. You claim that I don’t know you—but when I try to know you, you hide yourself from me. How can any of this be fair?”

“I’ve told you,” she sniffs. “I don’t do fair.”

He gives a huff, half-irritated, half-amused.

He shifts, so close now that she can feel the heat of his body. Quietly, he points out, “And have you ever considered that, perhaps…I look at you this way because I truly _do_ see you? Because I see you, in your truest form, and I love what I see?”

She looks up at that, heart pounding wildly. He’s smiling so softly, so adoringly again. No, he shouldn’t still smile at her like that. Not after this. Not anymore.

That should be lost to her forever. Why is it still here? Why is he still here?

“I can’t give you my hand,” she informs him, utterly serious.

His expression falls. He merely nods, accepting her verdict.

* * *

There’s nothing left to say, is there? Regardless of how she feels, she has made up her mind, and Eist will respect it, even if he doesn’t understand it. He turns away again.

Then, her hand. Lightly catching his arm. He stops, stills, doesn’t even attempt to keep his foolish heart from rising in hope.

“I can’t give you my hand,” she repeats quietly. Her gaze is locked on the hand in question, still holding his arm. Her thumb is lightly stroking, just enough to be felt through the layers of his sleeve, as if she’s trying to commit this small touch to memory, as if he’s already gone completely. Her eyes are glistening—he knows that when she finally blinks, there will be tears upon her cheeks.

“But—I could—if you were so inclined—give you my heart.”

The last two words are barely a whisper, nearly lost to the night completely. He waits a beat, fairly certain that he’s hallucinated the offer.

She looks up at him, eyes still shimmering.

It’s real.

“My heart, and nothing more.” The corners of her mouth quiver, turn down in sorrow. She gives a small, almost imperceptible shake of her head. “If I were to give in to anything more, it would destroy us both. Please believe me. I have never—I don’t pretend to know much about love, except that mine is something that isn’t natural. It’s too much. Too…reaching.”

He wants to say that he’s willing to chance it, but there’s something final in her tone, something that tells him there will be no swaying her.

She finally blinks. Just as he inwardly predicted, a tear streaks down her cheek on each side.

“Pavetta will marry Crach. I need that union to stand, for the good of my kingdom. We will remain allies—and, I hope, friends. I will love you from afar, and you will hold my heart. And when you finally find someone truly worthy of yours, you will give it to her. And then you will truly be happy. Then you will understand that I did you the greatest courtesy I could ever manage.”

He merely nods. He doesn’t tell her that he can’t possibly give his heart to another—it hasn’t been in his own keeping for quite some time now. Her heart is a lovely gift, but in reality, it’s more of an exchange. A heart for a heart.

She does do fair, even if she doesn’t realize it.

“Please don’t be angry,” she whispers. And his heart, still in her hands, breaks.

* * *

Before Calanthe can fully register what’s happening, Eist is pulling her into a hug, wrapping her up tightly. It’s more than they’ve ever touched before, and even in the midst of grief, her body warms and brightens at the sensation of pressing against his. She lets herself have a moment of weakness, lets herself bury her face into his chest, lets her mouth open and press against the fabric of his tunic (it’s so light, he can’t possibly feel it, what harm can it do?).

He continues holding her tightly, dipping his head so that his lips are beside her ear. Almost urgently, he prompts, “If I had carried through and won the duel. When I asked for the answer of your heart—what would you have said?”

“Exactly what I said now,” she breathes, and it’s all truth. 

He merely nods. Then, after a beat, he murmurs, “I won’t ask again. But only because you ask it of me.”

She lets her own hands slip around him, fingertips sinking into his shoulder blades, holding him closer still. It’s weakness, pure and simple, but she’s already fought so hard tonight. And she’s fighting still, to keep from doing so much more. She closes her eyes, commits this to memory—the scent of him, the warmth of him, the solid feeling of his body in her arms. Tells herself that this is good, this is enough. He will know happiness one day, and he will be grateful for her kindness that currently seems a cruelty. Because he deserves so much, and she cannot give it to him. Not just in the form of heirs, but in the form of a partner who can sail the seas and sit beside him in Skellige, who isn't locked to this place forever, a partner who can be supportive instead of sniping, who can be tender instead of temperamental. Would she try to be those things for him? Absolutely. And would she fail, and further break his heart in the process? Absolutely.

Then he pulls away, looking down at her to declare, “There will never be another.”

She smiles. They always promise that. Still, she lets him say what he needs to.

He dips his head slightly, “I do ask for one stipulation.”

She feels her anxiety rising. Still she waits.

“Your heart and nothing more—I will agree, because it seems to bring you peace, which is what I want for you, even at the expense of my own. But I do ask, just this once: your lips.”

Heat floods her chest.

Just this once. She can seal the wound of this night with something as small and inconsequential as a kiss.

She knows she’s lying, even as she rolls upon the balls of her feet, shifting to let her mouth meet his.

_One step closer to the flame. Reach out your hand now—it won’t bite, surely!_

It isn’t small or inconsequential. It’s heat and stars and a mad, spinning world. It’s his hands on her hips, holding her steady as her hands cup his face, pulling him further in. It’s his tongue, sliding path her teeth with all the shock and electricity of heat lightning. It’s the small gasp she hears pull from her own mouth and the way her body shivers, as easily as if he’s touched her in places far more intimate. It’s the way her hands pull at his neck, her knees buckling slightly, every ounce of her will power screaming not to sink further down, not to devolve into an absolute animal, to drag him to the ground and take him here and now, in this gods-forsaken field.

It’s the tears she feels, welling up behind her closed eyelids once more.

She pulls away, suddenly too overwhelmed. Her hand immediately covers her mouth, as if trying to keep the sensation of his lips there, always. _All the heat of a fire, and now, too, all of the burn._

He dips his head slowly, as if he’s just received a holy benediction, taking a beat to squeeze her hips between his hands.

“Thank you,” he breathes. Then he steps back, removes his grasp. Already her skin aches at the loss of warmth.

She clears her throat, ducks her head, makes herself busy with finding her gloves and her sword and her scabbard, all tossed aside in the grass. Then she puts further distance between them, giving a sharp whistle to signal the horses, who’ve wandered off in their grazing, practically unfazed by the sounds and sights of the evening. They’re Cintran-bred coursers, they’ve been taught to endure all things with barely a batted eye.

They come trotting back up to her, nickering softly in anticipation, eager to return home.

* * *

This time, Eist steps forward, gently taking one of the bridles from her grip. His hand lingers, simply enjoying the contact between them.

“Too much?” he asks, voice lined with concern.

She shakes her head. “The… _nothing more_ was in reference to things a bit more…involved.”

She’s generally not one to be prudish or coy about such matters, but even in the darkness, he sees the flush on her features. This woman, who can swagger and swear and tell the bawdiest jokes with the best of them, who has candidly talked about her sex life with him and heard equally candid tales about his own—she cannot bring herself to discuss the potential of sex between them, and that causes mild wonderment. She’s overwhelmed at the thought.

And while he’s known for a while now, it is good to be reminded that the feeling’s mutual. It’s an absolute shame that according to their new agreement, it will never be pushed further.

He wonders if now, they also can’t simply talk, the way they used to. If now, certain topics are forever off-limits, forever limiting the connection they once had as friends.

“Are we…still friends?” He asks, almost fearful of the answer.

“I suppose there’s little other description for it,” she admits, after a thoughtful beat. She strokes her horse’s cheek when it takes the bit, making a small tutting sound that has the horse perking its ears in interest. With a heavy sigh, she adds, “I don’t want anything to change between us, even though I know it has already. I do consider you a friend, Eist. A close one, if I’m being honest. I just…need to know that you won’t try to push past the bounds of what can never be between us. I want to be able to…approach you, as I have before, without fearing that it will end in another round of refusals and tears.”

He nods, throat tightening in protest. “I can promise that. But I can’t promise not to love you.”

She nods, as if understanding entirely—and she does, doesn’t she?

_Love_. She said it, directed at him. _I will love you from afar_. A promise, a declaration. Not the one he was hoping for, at the end of this fight, but still lovely and good, in its own bittersweet way.

But there’s still a point he needs to make. He gently takes her hand, bringing it closer so that he can brush the lightest of kisses over her knuckles, already encased in her leather gloves again.

“I accept your heart, and expect nothing more,” he vows. “And I will gladly remain your friend—and hopefully prove myself worthy of being considered one of your closest, throughout the coming years. But you must acknowledge one thing: even if I never so much as kiss you again, even if I never touch you but for the smallest, briefest of times, even if I never bear witness to the beauty of your body or what is surely a breathtaking experience in your bed, I am your lover.”

She blinks hard at that, surprised but not offended. She swallows thickly, her eyes locked on to his.

“A lover is more than just a physical companion,” he reminds her gently. “I am a lover of your soul, if nothing more. Please do not ask me to be anything less. Please understand that I do not view you as anything less. I may not declare my romantic feelings, or push them into intentions or actions ever again, but please, do not ask me to pretend as if they do not exist—or worse still, try to stop them from existing entirely.”

It’s bold, maybe pushing too far, just as she has asked him not to—but if she’s going to set parameters, then he is, too. Just as she needs the peace of knowing he won’t ask for her hand again, he needs the peace of knowing that she still understands the depth his true feelings towards her.

To his unending wonder, she nods. And smiles. It’s a soft, shaking thing, barely enough to lift one corner of her mouth. Still, it is more than enough.

Then she moves, shifting her horse further away so that she can pull herself into the saddle. She puts her hand on the hilt of her sword and turns back to him expectantly.

This time, she waits for him to fully settle in the saddle before urging her horse back towards Cintra. This time, she keeps it at a slow, easy walk. This time, she stays so close that sometimes, their knees bump against each other as their horses plod on, side by side.

He feels a light stirring at his hand, looks down to see her gloved fingertips, gently trilling against his own. He returns the small gesture, heart swelling at the monumental step encapsulated in this infinitesimal action.

_Lovers_ , he thinks. They are lovers, now. As much as he would delight at the chance to make love to her and with her, he’s long known that this thing between them isn’t purely physical.

He can love her, like this. He _has_ loved her, like this. Without needing more, even if he still yearns for it, from time to time. He can live in her smile and die at the smallest of her touches. He can sit at her table and make plans upon the maps in her study. He can keep her company and her secrets and her heart, which she has given so freely.

She’d looked at him, tears in her eyes as she confessed that her love wasn’t natural, wasn’t within the bounds of reason or restraint. All he can think now is that this still feels perfectly natural, perfectly reasonable in its own way.

Most importantly, he knows that his feelings towards her are not an imposition, not unrequited. He has loved her with no hope of ever having it actualized or returned. And now, he can love her, knowing that while it is returned, certain aspects will never be integrated into their relationship.

He lets a crooked finger slide over the back of her hand, leather running over leather. There is more to making love than sex, he realizes. This is how it will be, for them.

And this is how it is, for two more years. Secure in the knowledge that she no longer has to shield herself, Calanthe truly does let him get to know her. They find more excuses to spend time together—hawking expeditions, under the guise of chaperoning Crach and Pavetta and furthering their preparations for marriage, and the occasional brief visits when Eist is coming or going from some other continental kingdom, performing his emissary duties as Jarl of Skellige. There are a few more feasts, a few tournaments he attends. Their friendship deepens, they truly learn to simply enjoy each other’s company—they've always shared the same sense of humor, the same competitive need to win even the pettiest of battles, the same deep loathing for pomp and circumstance, which they both have to endure anyways. But now they can truly relish the connection, and even the most boring court affairs are a delight, if he is seated at her table, near enough to keep a constant running commentary on the proceedings.

People stare, and people whisper, and yes, sometimes Eist wishes all the rumors were true. But he’s still so wildly happy to have this much that he doesn’t allow much time for wishing. She’s bright and beautiful and sometimes, when no one else is looking, she drops the mask, looking at him so deeply that he knows her heart is still firmly in his keeping, or lightly brushing her hand against him, sending off jolts of electricity in his veins. Even when those moments don’t happen, there is always an undercurrent of genuine understanding between them—no more guessing, no more wondering, just sheer certainty and the quiet joy it brings.

They even duel, a few more times. Still at night, still away from the rest of the world. Those are far more playful, far more charged with a tension that they can never fully exorcise, at least not with each other. But it’s still a wonder and a joy, watching her eyes shine and her color rise as she lunges at him, mouth curled in the kind of feral excitement that only shows when she’s caught up in adrenaline and delight.

And every time, they ride back to Cintra, exactly like this. Side by side, their fingertips lightly touching, gentle and full of tender longing. The way they’d be, after, if they ever fell into bed together, he knows.

Yes, they are lovers. He doesn’t need her hand, as much as he still longs for it, sometimes. He has her heart—and she has his. In all the ways that truly matter, they have made their vows. They forever belong to each other.

**Author's Note:**

> The story behind Calanthe's scar is mentioned in "Charging the Hot, Humid Night", if you aren't already familiar with it, just fyi.


End file.
